wait. ilya and shane meet at speed dating where they both get pulled along by sveta and rose and they spend their entire five minutes together debating some dumb shit and then they suck each other off in the bathroom in the bar later
“I don’t mind,” Shane says, hovering awkwardly in the doorway, “Um. You staying over. I mean, obviously. I’d be an asshole to kick you out.”
Ilya is used to him, by now; the way it can sometimes take a few seconds or minutes for Shane to get to the fucking point, mincing his words and dancing around whatever it is he’s actually trying to say. In anyone else it would be unbearable, but Ilya is finding it harder and harder to begrudge Shane anything.
It’s a scary thought, so Ilya schools his expression into something close to nonchalance, and shrugs. His bare shoulders brush the fabric of Shane’s fancy headboard. “If you want me to stay, I stay. If not, I go home. I’m not homeless, Hollander, I have my own bed.”
All of Shane’s peculiarities, all of his strange quirks and habits, have made a home in the back of Ilya’s mind. The old-fashioned alarm clock on the nightstand so he doesn’t have his phone around the bed, now blinking just past 5AM. The dimmer switch in every room because he hates overheard lights, the way he’ll transfer $500 to Ilya’s checking account every Friday because aren’t college students supposed to have fun on Fridays?
It’s Saturday morning, now. Shane is pulling a T-shirt over his head, sweats to cover the hickeys on the inside of his thighs. Ilya blinks once, twice, then looks away.
“I know you’re not homeless,” Shane scoffs, but it’s not mean, or mocking; if anything it sounds closer to fond, which only adds to the creeping, sickly feeling of anxiety growing in Ilya’s chest. “There’s a keycard on the counter in the kitchen, and you know the door code, so come and go as you want while I’m gone.”
“You can be an asshole,” Ilya says, biting down on the urge to snap at him. It’s not Shane’s fault if he’s never had this kind of arrangement before, not his fault if he thinks he has to be kind and charming for Ilya to sleep with him. “You barely know me, Hollander. You shouldn’t let strangers just come in and out of your apartment.”
Shane shrugs again, seemingly unwilling to take the bait. The more he resists, the more Ilya feels the itch, the tickle under his skin begging him to pick a fight. A big one. An excuse to say awful, hurtful things; maybe then Shane will understand who he’s dealing with, here, and why the kindness and the blushing and the thoughtful gestures aren’t necessary, or deserved.
“You have finals next week, right?” Shane asks, rhetorical, because Ilya saw it marked on his fucking calendar. His physical fucking calendar. ILYA - SMALL ANIMAL DENTISTRY FINAL on Tuesday, and ILYA - DIAGNOSTIC IMAGING FINAL on Friday. He has more, obviously, but those are the two he mentioned to Shane. The ones he’s worried about, because they’re the classes in which his grade is the lowest. Probably because he goes straight from hockey practice to class, and he’s usually exhausted by then. Shane keeps talking, pulling his jacket on and pulling Ilya from his spiralling thoughts. “It’s a quiet place to study. Housekeeping will keep kitchen stocked, so, y’know. You can help yourself.”
It’s fucking obscene. Shane Hollander is the captain of a Stanley Cup winning NHL team, and they’re headed to the playoffs in a month, and he’s wasting his fucking mental space on Ilya’s finals and his practice schedule and the fucking quality of his study space.
This week will be good, he thinks. Some space, while Shane is in the US on his roadie, and Ilya will absolutely fucking not be in this apartment. He’ll be in the library, or at his apartment with Svetlana. Anywhere he doesn’t have to think about Shane’s smile, or his glasses, or the way he’s so infuriatingly kind and thoughtful and treating Ilya like his equal.
“I don’t need your apartment, Hollander.”
Shane shrugs again. Asshole. “Well, it’ll be here. If you want it. And I, uh— Look, don’t be mad, but you’re gonna break your ankles in those fucking skates, so I—“
“Always with the skates! Is fine, scholarship covers the equipment, and—“
“And they only pay out for the shitty stuff,” Shane frowns. His broad hands are on his hips, now, sweeping back the hem of his jacket. Ilya can see a sliver of smooth, tan skin peeking out from beneath his T-shirt. “Seriously. The scholarship is great, I’m sure, but I’ve watched your tape. Those skates aren’t the right brand, you need better ankle support or you’ll keep losing your edges.”
“Oh my God, you are so fucking boring,” Ilya groans, covering his face with his bare arms, hoping the flexing of his biceps will be enough to distract Shane from the stupid, dizzy smile on his face. Fuck. Fuck Shane Hollander, what a fucking psychopath. He watched his game tape. He bought him better skates.
“Yeah, yeah, you’ve told me,” Shane grumbles. The mattress dips when Shane sits down, and Ilya can feel one of his hands sliding up his chest. “Tomorrow, go to the CCM offices in— Ilya, are you listening? Go to the CCM offices uptown, and they’ll fit you for something better. Custom, if needed. Ask for Laurie, she’s expecting you.”
“You are not very good at this,” Ilya says, lowering his arms. Shane is so close; he can see the threads of grey in his ink-black hair, the smile lines around his eyes. “Thanks for the fuck, Ilya, here is $500, see you next week. This is how you are supposed to do it.”
He expects Shane to recoil, or look hurt, or react badly. That’s the point. But he doesn’t; Shane just smiles, small and fond, and rubs his thumb across Ilya’s jaw.
“I’m very fucking boring, remember?” Shane reminds him, quietly, “I’m supposed to be bad at this kind of thing.”
Just saw an incensed booktok take that said you can't, can not! have 1st person narration where the internal monologue lies to the reader, and..... I mean
what?? y'all don't like unreliable narrators? my best friends who can't be trusted? my fascinating, obfuscating, straight up lying to me besties?
I just think there's fertile ground at the intersection of Ilya's caretaker tendencies and his need to handle everything for his loved ones as an act of service and Shane's complicated and repressed resentment around being handled or indeed managed by a loved one.
my mom keeps trying to say we should just leave because it's stopped bleeding now and it 'barely' hurts. and telling me there's no reason for me to wait with her.
and she just said 'I don't think you could catch me,' meaning if she did a runner... my 69 year old, 4'11" mother. from whom I get all my stunning lack of athleticism 🙄
my mom keeps trying to say we should just leave because it's stopped bleeding now and it 'barely' hurts. and telling me there's no reason for me to wait with her.
and she just said 'I don't think you could catch me,' meaning if she did a runner... my 69 year old, 4'11" mother. from whom I get all my stunning lack of athleticism 🙄
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theartofmadeline
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